Vintage (28 page)

Cooking,
Bruno thought,
is the greatest artistic achievement.
The original biped back in the murky depths of the Pleistocene who first laid her (for Bruno was sure it had been a woman) skinned slab of gazelle on a dark rock next to the open flame and reveled in how it bubbled and oozed and life returned, the smells drifting across the savanna in a siren call to the council fire—she was the first true pioneer, mage, priestess and artist of our species. It was cooking that increased our proteins, in turn increasing the size of our brain and granting us the luxury to dream, imagine and create rather than dig roots in the cold hard ground until our fingernails bled, or spend moonlit night after moonlit night tracking the herd. Around that fire, where
the members of the clan lingered in the aroma of the first meal, was where our first true sacred act as a species had occurred: the telling of a story. And that moment, that first primordial dinner conversation, was perfected only a brief moment later in geological time, when someone in the clan had buried bunches of grapes wrapped in animal skins in the ground in an attempt at preservation, and dug them up weeks or maybe months later to find that the juice had changed. The addition of patience, the luxury of time, had transformed yet again, and those grapes had become something to revere, something to complete that campfire circle . . . to loosen the tongue and lift worries and give strength, comfort. Community.

Vasili touched Bruno's elbow, rousing him from yet another reverie. Bruno scanned the final preparation and then turned to his
chef de partie
: “Time to cook!” he said. He brushed the asparagus with butter and dill, the steelhead with glaze and cracked pepper, sliding them all under the open flame of the broiler, an aria from Puccini suddenly bursting from his heart.
Who am I? I am a poet,
he sang in Italian,
and how do I live? I live in carefree poverty. I live songs and squander rhymes like a lord
. Vasili was likewise inspired and he sang something in Russian. They traded phrases as the flames worked their transformative spell.

Red caviar may be the poorer cousin, the humble substitute for the pearly black onyx of the real thing. But her color is more brilliant, her flavor more overt and the epic odyssey of her species more inspiring. A circle of red caviar, gleaming little bulbs on a slab of bread torn freshly from the loaf and toasted only momentarily. This, like the three simple words “I love you,” has a power and humility that is difficult to describe. So forgive me for trying.

—
B
RUNO
T
ANNENBAUM,
T
WENTY
R
ECIPES FOR
L
OVE

V
arushkin shuffled down the corridor, guards on either side. He tried to stand erect, proud. But the chains binding his hands to his feet sapped his dignity. The cold stone floor pulled his spine to a curve and his chin toward the earth. What had he become?

He didn't want Katya to pity him. He wanted her to know that he had once loved her, and that perhaps a part of him still did. And that he would never break. He would die in here clinging stubbornly to what he was, not what they were trying
to bend him into. This arrangement with the writer . . . it was Varushkin's last business deal. It was the final application of the power he once held. He had helped to transform an entire country out of the dark ages of an idealistic but ultimately corrupt and untenable idea. He had transformed a company employing seventy thousand workers from a clumsy, bankrupt state enterprise to a gleaming example of efficiency. And he had then stepped too far in an attempt to transform his country's politics. But now he had painfully learned that the black souls of politicians were beyond reform and it had been futile for him to try.

Now, here, he could only attempt to transform a little cell in the darkest hole in Moscow. And in the process, endeavor to warm Katya's frozen heart only a little. If anything the writer had claimed in either of his books held a shred of truth, then the ice would begin to melt. And if not . . . well, then he had exposed another great lie.

They reached the door to the interrogation room. A guard unlocked it and let them in, clicking on the buzzing fluorescent lights. There was a wobbly metal table with a stained wooden top and two folding chairs. The stains on the wall seemed darker and more ominous than the last time. He wondered if this was all some cruel trick of his political enemies and he was in for interrogation instead of a reunion with his wife and a fine meal.

He sat down at the table and extended his cuffed hands to the guard.

“Would you mind?”

The guard looked at Khramov, who nodded, so he reluctantly twisted a key into the cuffs, which then dropped to the floor in a pile on top of the chain that affixed them to his leg shackles. Even this small touch of freedom was something to savor. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, inhaling deeply.

*      *      *

At the same moment, Katya was working her way into the guts of the grim institution, twisting down long, antiseptic hallways, hearing only the sound of the red-lacquered soles of her shiny black knee-high Christian Louboutin boots and the soft tapping of her guard's shabby loafers. They mustn't pay these men anything, she thought, noticing that she could see his socks through the holes in his shoes.

There was a distant iron clang and some echoing, angry voices. She'd wanted to bring Igor, but it was clear the guards wanted nothing to do with that grim-faced hulk. Katya had quipped that as a former soldier, he was fully house-trained and wouldn't bite without her permission. She laughed at her own joke, but nobody else did. Igor never so much as smiled, and she wondered what went on behind those opaque, steel-gray eyes. He took a seat at the reception and inspected a week-old newspaper.

Katya caught a sound echoing in the distance that was like music. She thought she recognized the tune. “Is that opera?” she asked the guard. He shrugged and then paused before a plain door, one of many, set in the narrow hallway, fumbling with his keys. She smiled warmly and folded a ten-thousand-ruble note into his shirt pocket, saying, “For you . . . and your family.” He nodded at her blankly.

She drew a deep breath and clenched her fingers into fists, bracing herself. She tried to determine what she wanted out of this meeting. She'd been summoned abruptly. She had been in the midst of packing for a trip to Saint Petersburg when some low-level prison administrator had phoned to tell her that her husband required her presence immediately.
Required?
She'd hated how her body responded, pulse quickening, face flushing.
It had once thrilled her . . . that ambiguous mix of feelings she had around Anatoly Varushkin. Now it made her feel like a confused girl. What was once mysterious about him had morphed into manipulation, what was authoritative and wise now seemed mostly old and stubborn. Inspirational had become egomaniacal.

What she wanted now was a final ultimatum. Either he would make some grand gesture, release some of the hidden wealth she knew he had squirreled away, enough to allow her to live comfortably for the rest of her life, or she would hunt down what she could herself and liquidate it immediately, using whatever she found to finance the best attorney she could acquire, and Anatoly would never see her again. And she would do this with a clean conscience. It wasn't wealth that she was after . . . it was autonomy.

Against her will, her pulse began to pound and her scalp warmed. Her breath drew short and she felt momentarily unsteady on her feet. Why was this so hard? She placed her hand on the guard's arm to steady herself as he opened the door. Then she smiled broadly even as her heart sank to see her husband in a clean but cheap shirt sitting at the little table in a bland, empty room like some bad schoolboy sent into isolation for punishment.

*      *      *

Varushkin stood. His chest warmed as it always did at the shock of seeing Katya. He wasn't sure if it was emotion or just surprise because she was so out of place against the drab landscape of the prison. She wore tall, shiny black boots that reached to just below her knees, and a black trench coat short enough to expose centimeters of exquisitely tanned knee and thigh. Her hair was pulled back in a tight, protective ponytail. He was disappointed because he preferred it falling loose, brown and glossy around
her shoulders. Only her bright red lips and the red-lacquered soles of her boots provided any relief to the serious tones of the ensemble. This must be her prison adventure outfit.

She smiled upon seeing him and he rose to meet her. She kissed the air on either side of his face, their cheeks touching slightly, a strange electric tingle in the sensation worrying him that he was becoming sentimental.

He gestured to the seat across the table.

“I'm glad you came.”

“Thank you. I was surprised. Is something wrong?”

“No, things are . . . as fine as can be expected.”

“Really?” She glanced around the room, frowning. She sat down reluctantly, not removing her coat. He could tell that she was angry already. In the past, this would have aroused him ever so slightly. Disarming her was an unpredictable game, one he enjoyed.

“Kind of you to join me.”

“I'm not here out of kindness. I actually don't know why I'm here.”

“I wanted to see you. To join me for dinner.”

“I'm in no mood for joking. Anatoly, I am going to be frank. And I am not going to beg. I know you have the power, and the remaining means, to either leave me destitute or provide for my comfort. I can't spend my life waiting.”

“I suppose not. But there is only so much I can do from in here. Outside, everyone has abandoned me. My friends have renounced me. Even my accountant fled to America and disappeared . . . with a handsome commission and not a few bottles of my wine, no doubt. Only you, my dear wife, have remained loyal.”

“And what reward is there for my loyalty? I'm flirting with poverty.”

“I can see that,” he said, tipping his head to look at her boots under the table.

“I know you have a little something hidden away. An account in Basel. An apartment building in Paris. Something.”

Outside, the sound of opera drew closer. Varushkin was enjoying the game. But he was also famished.

“Let's save this talk for after dinner.”

“Don't be absurd. I'm not eating with you. Not here.”

“I assure you it won't be prison food.”

“I've no patience for your games.”

“Once you leave through that door, I expect that I will never see you again. Isn't that true?”

Katya didn't respond. She glanced to her lap guiltily. She looked up at him with a momentary flicker of defiant fire in her eyes, and Varushkin knew that it was true. She would leave him . . . whether or not he gave her what she wanted. He pressed his hand gently against his chest as if to dampen the pain.

“So humor me this last time. Please.”

Katya stiffened. There was a commotion outside the door. A clank. A laugh. “Room service!” someone called in English.

“Ah, and here's the chef,” Varushkin said.

*      *      *

Bruno pushed the squeaking, rickety cart into the room past the guard. The place was more dismal than before. The stained white walls were oppressive, the sickly fluorescent lights making Varushkin look even more shriveled and tubercular.

But the woman, Katya, Bruno presumed, seemed unaffected by her mean surroundings. He caught his breath as she glanced at him, her perfectly almond-shaped eyes lined in dark pencil, her brow in a furrow, her lacquered lips pursed with skepticism.
He caught a glimpse of thigh where her short trench coat ended and before her tall boots began. She shone, and it was like stumbling across a jewel in the gutter.

“My wife, Katya,” Varushkin said.

Bruno extended his hand and bowed with ceremony. Katya gently placed her fingers on his and he brushed them with his beard. “Delighted. Bruno Tannenbaum, at your service,” he breathed against her hand.

“Of course, I know who you are,” she said, and he could see that she was surprised as she glanced from Bruno to Varushkin. She cracked an unreadable smile. Bruno was baffled, and also pleased, that his dubious celebrity seemed to even penetrate to this darkness.

Then he burst into action. He snapped his fingers and Vasili unfolded a white tablecloth, shaking it out and letting it drift down on the table and then smoothing it. When the table rocked, he pulled a stick of chewing gum out of his pocket and knelt to prop it under one leg. He set out two candles and lit them.

“The lights,” Bruno said to the guard, who ignored him. “The lights,
pozhaluysta,
” Bruno said, and the guard then shook his head. Vasili put his hands on his hips and said something in Russian, and finally the guard complied and the lights were switched off, leaving the couple isolated by the candle flicker. Katya's shoulders seemed to ease immediately. The room was now filling with aromas, and Varushkin inhaled and smiled.

Bruno pushed the cart to the corner. From the bottom shelf, he lifted a sickly rubber plant, which he stood against one wall to break the monotony. He then switched on a small transistor radio he'd found in the kitchen, and the room filled with crackling Prokofiev, Kutusov bellowing the aria from
War and Peace
, his voice grandiose and haunting.

Bruno set two glasses before his guests. They were, of course, his guests now that he had taken over the room. This little cell was his. He had joined them. What he had made would soon sustain them. And, if he was successful, transform them.

“May I pour the wine?”

Varushkin nodded.

Bruno popped the cork with the silver eagle corkscrew that he had had since the beginning of the quest. He felt kind of attached to it now, even though he still had no idea what the inscription said. He made a note to ask Vasili about it later. He showed Varushkin the label of the bottle.